They’d probably have to drive into Bullhead, but a man had to do what a man had to do. While he was there, he could drop off The Wizard of Oz. Maybe pick up another movie to watch with Simone. What else would she like? Was she a Singing in the Rain kind of woman? Yeah. Definitely.
Shit. Carl stood in the barely open doorway saying nothing.
“Okay, not pool.” He drew another blank, a testament to the fact that he didn’t really know his brother-in-law well. He made the commitment to get to know Carl better, starting right now.
Carl finally made the next move. “Darts.”
“Yeah. Darts.” Brax hadn’t thrown a dart since he was in college, and even then, he hadn’t practiced enough to get really good. Skill level, however, didn’t matter in this instance.
“All right.” Carl glanced back over his shoulder. “Let me...clean up in here.”
“I’ll wait out by the truck.”
Brax figured Carl had acquiesced merely to get him out of the door of the trailer. What was he doing in there? Brax’s immediate reaction was to flash his badge and intimidate his way inside. Carl being his brother-in-law, however, required more stealth.
Like plying him with beer and darts, then driving him back home to talk with his wife.
Chapter Six
The evening was comfortably warm half an hour later when they climbed out of Brax’s SUV in Bullhead. Monday night was a hell of a lot more crowded at The Dartboard than at the Flood’s End on a Sunday. Whether it was the day of the week, the entertainment or the fact that The Dartboard offered scantily clad waitresses, Brax couldn’t be sure. By the looks of it, the majority of Bullhead’s male population—and probably most of Goldstone’s, too—was in attendance. They had to take a ticket and wait for one of the ten boards set along the far wall opposite the bar.
Brax muscled his way through the three-deep crowd at the bar and ordered a couple of beers while Carl claimed a miraculous recently vacated table at the edge of the dart range. They could have waited for one of the bar girls, but there was a good chance they might both expire of old age by then. Brax figured he needed to loosen Carl’s tongue with some brew as quickly as possible.
Expect for the occasional “turn left here,” Carl had been mum on the drive. That, however, had been part of Brax’s plan. He’d let Carl stew in silence, then he’d interrogate—excuse me—persuade him to talk over a beer and a friendly dart game. With the decibel level on the deafening side, Brax didn’t have high hopes for much serious conversation, though. At least not without the alcohol and a little more of that divine intervention.
The patrons were on the rough side, mostly wearing jeans and worn T-shirts in a multitude of colors. Long, scraggly beards were a fashion statement. The smoke-infested air they breathed would choke a chicken. Bad analogy. The chickens were too high-class for a joint like The Dartboard.
Returning to the table, he slid one foaming beer to Carl and squeezed into the chair opposite. The place erupted in hoots and hollers as some skilled and talented player did...something. Brax couldn’t see over the throng, but by the sound of it, the accomplishment had been stupendous. Brax was jostled from the left and stabbed in his right ear by a pointed elbow.
The Dartboard was a bad idea for any man-to-man gritty and to-the-point discussion. Dammit, he should have started on Carl in the truck, but he’d been anticipating a crowd more on par with the Flood’s End. He was also damn sure that Carl had intended it this way. A smile creased Carl’s mouth as he stretched his five-foot-ten frame for a gander at the dart action.
“How long you think we’ll have to wait for a board, Carl?”
He shouted but Carl cupped his ear and mouthed What?
Brax was sure the man was snickering at his own cunning. “When will we get a game?” he enunciated distinctly so Carl could lip-read.
“Probably by Friday night,” Carl shouted back.
Snookered. He hadn’t credited Carl with being so cagey. His brother-in-law was damn talented at it, too. Friends eased between the tables, slapping him on the back, joking, laughing. Brax didn’t strain to overhear.
Divine revelation wasn’t going to come from a bit of backslapping with the good old boys.
Maybe he could clear the bar by arresting them all for overcrowding. A sign over the door indicated the maximum occupancy at fifty, but this herd exceeded that by a multiple of at least three.
His throat scratched, and his head ached from cigarette and cigar fumes. He found it hard to even fantasize about Simone and her lovely smile. Someone had stepped on his right foot and broken his toes, or at least it felt like it. The cool sizzle of beer down his throat helped.
“Carl, you got three choices,” he yelled.
Carl lifted an eyebrow.
“You can tell me how you’re going to do right by my sister.”
The one eyebrow dropped, and Carl raised the other.
“Or we can go outside, and I’ll beat the crap out of you for making her cry.”
Carl held up three fingers indicating he wanted to hear Brax’s third option.
“We can muscle in on a game of darts.”
A wry smile curved Carl’s lips, then he pointed through the sea of spectators to the dart floor.
Brax almost sighed. In truth, he preferred the third choice himself. Talking about so-called issues or fighting about them were equal pains-in-the-butt. He ignored the small inner voice whispering, Wimp, wimp. Why did women think it was so easy to bare your soul? Or to listen to someone else baring theirs?
Brax rose, taking his beer in hand, then they shoved through the throng, guarding their mugs with their arms.
“All right, who’s the most likely candidate to be intimidated into letting us in?”
Carl strained forward, looking left, then right, and back again. A smile split his face. It was damn near the evil mien of a maniacal serial killer. Not that Brax had ever dealt with one. Not a real one, at any rate. Nick Angel didn’t count. That crap about him being a serial killer had all been gossip.
His brother-in-law was a goofy-grin kind of guy, making you wonder if there was much up there in Carl’s brain. But the smile that spread across his face now, well, it was pure shit-eating malevolence.
Brax leaned out to glance down the line of shooters, but he couldn’t pick out Carl’s mark.
Still smiling, Carl dipped back into the crowd and made a beeline for what looked like the last board. Brax followed. Carl called out before they’d even reached their destination. “Hey, Lafoote, how about letting us join your game?”
A hush fell, like the moment the minister steps up to the pulpit or a cop walks into a friend’s dope party. Where moments before Brax’s ears had pounded with the din, they now rang with the sudden silence.
Lafoote. Alias The Foot. The man the chickens had called a variety of demeaning names. What had the girls said about him, besides the fact that Lafoote wasn’t man enough to handle one of them, let alone all four? Oh yeah, Lafoote was planning to renovate the old hotel—though from what Brax had seen, he’d be better off razing it to the ground and starting over—and he was plotting the venture with Chloe.
The two men faced off. The bar’s atmosphere darkened, the air heavy and charged, like the hours before a hurricane hit land.
“Let’s play a game, Lafoote.” Carl seemed to stand a little taller and a lot straighter. To him, this was no game.
Lafoote’s opponent—a dark, wiry guy who would have looked dangerous even without the dart clutched in his fist like a weapon—retreated three steps. A two-foot half circle opened up around Lafoote and Carl, like kids on a playground when the class bully finds a victim.
Falling back into a gunfighter position like something out at the OK Corral, Lafoote widened his stance and put his hand on his hips as if preparing to do a quick draw. “Well now, Carl, since we’re almost done here, that doesn’t seem like the politic thing to do at the moment.” He pointed to his companion. “My friend here is beating the pants off me, and
I’m sure he’s enjoying the fact that I’m no challenge. You, on the other hand, Carl, I’m sure you excel at the finer points of the game, considering the number of hours you practice each day. And that on top of managing to excavate at least four outhouses a week and discovering untold buried treasures. Why, Carl, that is what I call total dedication to a worthwhile pursuit.”
Carl’s confident smile vanished.
Lafoote was smooth all right. With Muhammad Ali’s “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee” finesse, he’d called Carl a dart-playing, outhouse-excavating loser. Lafoote’s lanky opponent was still trying to figure out if he’d been insulted, too.
Completely shut down by Lafoote, Carl could only sputter. His face turned red, and it wasn’t with the same stain of embarrassment that had tortured his features last night at the Flood’s End. This was spontaneous combustion. This was Monday night in the boxing ring. This had the potential for collateral damage that rivaled Goldstone’s flood and fire combined.
Brax had been a cop for coming up on sixteen years. The best strategy an officer could apply was to head ’em off at the pass. He put a hand on Carl’s shoulder. Don’t grab, don’t pull. Gently bring ’em back to their senses. But Carl shrugged his hand off and squared off against The Foot.
“Listen, you little weasel, you’d better take your dog-and-pony show out of Goldstone before something bad happens to you.” Carl growled and clamped his mouth. His teeth ground as if he were breaking down gravel into sand. His fist clenched, unclenched, clenched again, so hard his knuckles turned white and the beer mug in his other hand trembled. His breath headed toward a full-blown pant while his eyes bore the haze of a bull gone mad.
If he’d had a gun, Carl more than likely would have shot the weasel.
“Are you threatening me, Felman?” The weasel, however, didn’t seem to know how close he was to dying. Or at least to sustaining a broken nose and a few loose teeth.
Brax shoved his own beer into the hand of a convenient onlooker and insinuated himself between the two combatants. Three inches taller than Carl, Brax blocked his view of Lafoote.
“We’re going to the Flood’s End, Carl.”
Carl’s breath puffed like a steam engine. “Butt out, Brax. This is between me and Lafoote.”
“Sheriff Braxton, he’s threatening me.” The glee in the weasel’s voice was about to earn him an elbow in his belly if he didn’t shut the hell up, but Brax concentrated on Carl.
Wider and taller, Brax gave Carl the cop look, the one that said I’m hauling your ass to jail, or telling your wife on you. “Back off, Carl.”
If Lafoote made a move or a sound, if anyone did, Carl would go off like a powder keg. What caused the animosity between the two men, Brax didn’t know, and right now, didn’t care.
He met Carl’s gaze. The blaze of anger in his eyes was downright frightening. Brax’s concern for his sister rose a notch.
Brax met Carl stare for stare, muscles bunched. “Let’s go outside, Carl.” He debated mentioning Maggie’s name, then decided against it.
Moments passed. Brax could almost feel the trapped breaths of the onlookers. Finally, Carl’s gaze dropped. The flare of his nostrils receded. Brax clapped him on the arm, then wrapped his hand around Carl’s biceps and turned him, steering them through a quickly parting crowd. “It’s too fricking loud in here, and there’s too many people for my taste, Carl. I’m getting claustrophobic.”
Carl moved like a zombie. They reached the end of the bar, and the door was in sight. Almost clear. Brax half expected The Foot to throw some irritating parting shot at Carl and start the whole damn thing over.
He reached the door, slammed it open, and practically shoved Carl through.
He’d learned three things. First, something overly odd was going on between the resort developer and the outhouse excavator. Second, Carl was much closer to the edge than even Maggie seemed to think. And third, Carl was not spending his time at The Chicken Coop, but at The Dartboard. Which should please Maggie.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.” Brax climbed in his SUV. Almost meekly, Carl followed suit on the passenger side.
Once they were on the highway headed back to Goldstone, Brax released the tension in his neck and shoulders. “What the hell was that all about?”
“The man’s a fucking asshole.” Carl’s voice was a low-pitched growl.
Brax didn’t know Carl well. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d met the guy face-to-face. So his experience was limited. Still, he’d never heard Carl use that particular word. Not even last night, when it was a guys-only outing.
“Why’s he piss you off so much?”
“It’s that fucking hotel.”
O-kay. The road wasn’t heavily traveled and the closest headlights were far in the distance. Carl was on the edge about the whole business. Why? People didn’t want the hotel, but Carl’s reaction was way beyond simply not wanting the renovation.
He put on his best-buddy routine to ferret out the answer. “I agree he’s a dick of the first order, but ya had me a bit unnerved in there. I mean, I’d hate to have to tell Mom you have homicidal tendencies.” He decided a little levity would ease the tension while at the same time impress upon Carl that his uncharacteristic behavior was bordering on bizarre.
Carl snorted with what Brax hoped was a chuckle. “She’d drag Maggie off to Divorce Court if she heard me use the F-word.”
His mother loved that judge on Divorce Court. “Up to this point, she’s been quite fond of you, Carl.” He threw that in, though it wasn’t the truth. “But you’re pushing it, pal.”
Carl glanced at him. “Let’s keep it between us, okay? Your mother scares the crap out of me. Last time she got mad at me, she gave me the look. I was afraid for my life.”
Ah, that look. The infamous look from Brax’s childhood emphatically stating, If you do that one more time, I will be forced to scream. And then I’ll tell your father. There’d always been hell to pay when his mother got that look.
Enid Braxton treated nothing lightly, especially not a potty mouth, as his mother called it. Brax could still taste the soap at odd moments. “I don’t know, Carl, it was a dual F-word. That’s pretty serious.”
“What do I gotta do to get you to keep it a secret?”
“Tell me what’s going on here, and I won’t rat you out to Mom.”
Carl was silent.
“That crap going down wasn’t like you.” At least Maggie had never complained of a temper.
Still no answer. With a quick glance, Brax found him staring out the windshield, a crooked smile on his lips, the headlights of the oncoming car glinting in what Brax was terrified might be moisture. It was the saddest damn thing he’d ever seen. What was he supposed to do if Carl actually cried?
“She still loves you, man.” He had to say something.
Carl didn’t remark on it. Instead, he returned to Brax’s original question. “Lafoote knows how to push a man’s buttons. Can’t say I’ve figured out how he does it, but he knows what to say to set a man off.”
“What’s he got against you?”
Carl sighed, quirked his lips, and shook his head, as if the actions explained it all. “It’s the hotel. Nobody wants it, and he won’t take no for an answer.”
There was more to it than that, but Carl wasn’t gonna spill without some manipulation. “So you were gonna rip his throat out over some hotel project?”
“He’s an asshole.”
“You said that already, Carl.”
“Is asshole okay with your mother?”
“Ass is fine if you drop the hole. It’s in the Bible.” Brax allowed a moment of silence without pressing for an answer.
Finally, Carl shifted in his seat. “He thinks I put Della up to stalling him on the permits and licenses he needs.”
“Della?”
“Della Montrose. She’s the county judge and the city mayor.”
“And did you put her up to it?”
“She was as against it as I was.”
“You know, Carl, I don’t really get the whole problem. A resort would create jobs and bring income to the city and county.” Hell, maybe they could even afford to pave some of the roads.
Carl turned and looked at Brax fully. “Would you want a bunch of gamblers, drunks, and whores moving into Cottonmouth?”
“Whore is a strong word.” It seemed too crude for the chickens. “And you’ve already got The Chicken Coop.”
“It’s the quantity and quality, Brax. We’re a small town. We want it to stay that way. That’s why most of us are here.”
Hard as it was to believe, people came to Goldstone by choice.
“They’ll want to start building houses and apartments and condos,” Carl went on, “because their employees will need somewhere to live. Then there’ll be laundromats and gas stations on every corner. And before you know it, they’ll want to put in a shopping mall.” He shuddered as if that signaled the decline of modern civilization.
“On the bright side, at least you wouldn’t have to drive thirty miles to get your groceries and you wouldn’t run out of gas between here and Bullhead.”
“Only tourists run out of gas.” Goldstone had a gas station, but from what Brax had seen, they’d tacked on another twenty cents a gallon to the price.
“Goldstone’s eventually gotta come into the new millennium.”
“Maybe,” Carl muttered. “All right, sure. But it’s not gonna be done by some outsider who looks like a weasel and acts like an ass.” Carl turned away to stare out the window. “One of these days, someone around here’s gonna surprise everyone.”
And that someone would be Carl himself? What, was he planning on finding a treasure trove of lost diamond rings beneath one of Whitey’s four outhouses?
Damn. That was harsh. Carl wasn’t a bad guy. He’d given his wife quite a nice roof over her head, even if it was a trailer, and up until a few months ago, Maggie had actually seemed happy most of the time.
Fool's Gold (A sexy funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 2) Page 8